


Letters to Home

by HerHighAndMightyness



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Canon Era, Character Insight, Character Study, Family, Feuilly's family is Les Amis, Filling in the blanks of Les Amis early years, Friendship, Last words, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Sadness, background headcanon, legacy, saying goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:54:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2495177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerHighAndMightyness/pseuds/HerHighAndMightyness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days leading up to the fateful night of the barricades, Enjolras encourages each of his friends to write a letter to his next of kin, to be delivered in the event of his death, so families will not be left wondering what happened. Each of the original Nine think of who it is that will receive their last words.</p><p>In the days following June 6, 1832, Les Amis' loved ones receive their letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Next of Kin

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of 10 (?) 
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction. (Ack!) I was inspired by two things. The first being my daughter. As a mom I can't help thinking that each of our Amis were once little boys, with mothers and families. (Except poor Feuilly!) I thought of how the news of their sons deaths would affect them, and how they would remember every scraped knee, every fall, every nightmare that they had comforted them through, knowing there are some hurts that not even a mother can take away.
> 
> Secondly, I was listening to the song It's Time, by Imagine Dragons. The line, "...the path to heaven runs through miles of clouded hell..." jumped out at me and I found myself thinking that it could have come straight from the mouth of Enjolras. It just sounds like something he would have said in one of his speeches, but I wanted him to say it to those of his followers who were his most loyal, his brothers. I felt it would have a greater impact on that small circle. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ***edited to reflect more chapters*** I decided to devote a chapter to each of the Amis' loved ones. Because, feels, that's why. :-)

May 19, 1832

  
"Amis," Enjolras said when the room had quieted, "the time is getting nearer. We must consider the price we may pay. We must realize that the road to the future, the march of progress, indeed, the path to heaven, runs through miles of clouded hell. And with that in mind, we must think of those we leave behind. I believe it would be prudent for each of us to write a notice of some sort to be directed to our closest kin in the event of our death. By so doing, if you fall in the days to come, they will, first, be aware of what has happened to you, and secondly, should you choose to tell them, they will know what you gave your lives for. I know that some of your families are aware of your involvement in the movement, but most of them are not. And I doubt any of them recognize the true extent of your dedication to our cause. Our sympathy for our fellow citizens must begin at home, with those who love us, and so we owe it to them to help them to understand that we each offer our lives willingly, happily even, in the steadfast belief that our sacrifice will bring about the beginning of the progress we seek, for the sake of France. For the sake of all people."

  
The room was more subdued than usual as the weight of their leader's words sank into each heart like a stone. Each of them was picturing their loved ones receiving the news of his death, and then receiving his last communication to them. Each one of them knew exactly who they needed to write to, but none of them knew the words to choose.  
Bahorel thought of his mother, miles away, still living in the tiny house he had grown up in, in the middle of their small farm. He thought of how hard she worked, sun up to sun down, matching the efforts of any man, taking on whatever task needed doing, in the house or in the gardens. He thought of her sitting by the fire in the evening, with a basket of mending on the floor beside her, and of his old cat purring contentedly on the hearth rug, keeping her company. There were friends in other cafes, and there were mistresses in still others, but it was of his mother, that cat, and the hearth at home that he thought.

  
Bossuet thought of his father. Those who knew the family knew that Bossuet's cheerfulness and his self-deprecating humor came from his father. Both men had the same easy manner, whatever their circumstances. They looked very much alike as well, except that the father had many more lines on his face, and much more hair on his head. Bossuet knew that his father would be at the post office every day, and that he would tear open the letter the moment he received it. He wished he wouldn't. He should be at home when he read his son's final words to him. He thought of Muschietta. He knew that he and Joly would say their goodbyes to her in person. He knew that she would hold their hands, would kiss them both, and would remind them that she believed in their cause, believed in them.

  
Grantaire thought of his sister, at home in the south, 17 years old but still insisting on running barefoot through the countryside around their family home, her black curls, so like those of her brother, loose and tossed by the wind. She was as unconventional as Grantaire, and he loved her for that. Growing up together they had fought, as siblings will, perhaps too spitefully at times, but still, in a world of tradition and convention and decorum, they understood one another. They didn't correspond often, he wasn't even sure what he could say that would serve any purpose. His parents certainly had no use for him. It was no secret they fully expected to hear that he was dead in a gutter somewhere anyway. Alaina deserved the truth though. Suddenly Grantaire was struck by the fact that he was thinking this through as if he had made the decision to fight with the rest of Les Amis. "Of course," he thought," Apollo's power of persuasion once again. Perhaps I will. Or perhaps I'll simply drink myself to death instead, and so live up to everyone's expectations." He chuckled bitterly at his wordplay.

  
Joly was thinking of his mother and his grandmother, living together just outside the city. He, of course, worried about how the news would affect them. He was concerned especially for his dear "Gra-mere," knowing her heart was not strong to begin with, and he worried that a letter from him after the news of his death would put her health further at risk. He knew that his mother would cope. He also knew that she would not speak of him, would not share her grief even with her own mother. When Joly's Papa died, she had locked herself away in her room for days, until she was able to lock her grief away inside herself. When she finally came back to her family, she never spoke of her husband, not even to her young son. Joly knew Gra-mere would find her own comfort. He could picture her in her old rocking chair, rosary beads in her frail hands, offering prayers for him, even after his death. He thought of Muschietta too. But she knew what he and his friends were doing. And even more, she knew what they were doing it for. Joly and Bossuet would each spend time with her before the end came. He knew that she would cry, that she would grieve for them both, but she would understand. She always had, which was why they both loved her.

  
Courfeyrac knew that his letter must be not only addressed to his parents, but to his sisters, his brother, and his grandparents as well. He smiled as he thought of them, arguing affectionately when the letter arrived about who was going to read it first. But silent tears fell from his eyes as he imagined each of them in turn reading his last words to them. He would choose his words carefully, find a way to comfort his loved ones. He knew his other friends were surprised by the way he spoke of his family, of the closeness they shared, but it had always been that way. Courfeyrac's warmth, so evident with his friends, came from living his childhood surrounded by that same warmth, coming from his family, especially his Maman. Courfeyrac had brought that with him when he came to Paris. And all who were privileged to call him "friend" were embraced by that warmth.

  
Jehan's last words would be a poem, written to his grandfather. The words in his mind were lyrical, and the words in his heart were music. His grandfather had always loved the poetry he wrote. In spite of being of a very different character himself, he had accepted Jehan's love of poetry and of flowers and of all that is lovely in the world. He had never criticised him for what some would call "softness," but had supported him in his endeavors. However, when Jehan tried to tell him about Les Amis, about their aims, and even their plans to move forward, Grandfather would not accept any of it. He could not comprehend how a gentle soul like Jehan could consider enacting the violence his revolution would require. Jehan tried to explain that in order for there to be a world of beauty to write about, ugliness had to be dealt with, and sometimes that ugliness had to be met with violence. But his grandfather could not imagine Jehan holding a gun and certainly could not conceive of him fighting man to man. Though always loving, always supportive to Jehan, Grandfather perhaps did not understand him well enough to realize that when confronted with the ugliness of society, with the cruel treatment of the most helpless, Jehan was the fiercest defender of all that is right, and beautiful, and good.

  
Combeferre's gentle eyes filled with tears as he thought of his nieces. He would write to his brother, Eduard, who would have to explain to his 6 and 8 year old daughters that Uncle 'Ferre wouldn't be coming around anymore. Combeferre and his older brother hadn't been close growing up, but had become so as adults, getting to know one another better after the deaths of their parents, and finding they had much in common. When Eduard's wife died, he was left to raise two girls on his own, and Combeferre had become a beacon of light for him, as well as his girls. For his part, Combeferre thought the sun rose and the moon set with those petite filles. He made certain to visit them a couple of times a week, and always dined with them on Sundays. He taught them all about butterflies, about how metamorphosis allowed the once earth-bound caterpillar to soar on the spring breeze, and thrilled at their eagerness to ask questions and learn more. His greatest joy came during the hours he spent with them. Eduard understood Combeferre's role in the coming revolution. Indeed, had it not been for those precious girls depending upon their Papa, Eduard would have been right beside his brother, in the thick of the fight.

  
Enjolras would write to his father, though there was nothing to be said. They had said it all the last time he visited home and tried to reason with his parents. Neither of them understood what they called his "obsession with the downtrodden." He proudly told them that it assuredly WAS an obsession. He told them that his efforts to help raise up the downtrodden were important, but only a small part of the work he and the others were doing. He wanted them to understand that it was about so much more - that it was the very essence of France herself, that it was about reestablishing the ideals and the reality of liberté, égalité et Fraternité. With that accomplished, the problems of the downtrodden would be solved, simply by natural progression. His mother tearfully told him that she could not accept this choice he had made to sacrifice his future. His father informed him that he would not accept his throwing his life away in this fashion, and that he should consider himself disinherited if he refused to see reason. Enjolras had paled at his mother's tears, but his countenance hardened at his father's words. Silently, his face set like marble, Enjolras nodded once, turned and walked out of his childhood home. He had had no contact with his parents in the 18 months since.

  
Feuilly had winced inwardly at Enjolras' speech. He knew that it was right and good for them to contact their loved ones, but being an orphan, all of Feuilly's loved ones were in that very room with him. As he considered the coming days, though, he knew that he would write his letter as well. It would be addressed to "All Peoples." He would tell his story. He would tell their story. He would recount the cruelty and the injustice of the world they lived in, and he would depict the illumination and the promise of the new world they hoped to bring about. He would include the names of each of his brothers in arms. He would make sure that they were not forgotten, that what they were fighting for would be clearly communicated so that future generations would know the sacrifices that were made for the prosperity they would enjoy, and would be inspired to continue the fight for as long as it took to win victory for all.

  
It was earlier than usual when, one by one, they trickled out of the cafe. The laughter and gaiety that normally accompanied their "good nights," was missing that evening, each man absorbed in his own melancholy thoughts.


	2. Bahorel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel's mother receives his last letter and reminisces.

June 9, 1832

Bahorel's mother sat by the fire, crumpled paper in her hand, her mending forgotten at her feet, the cat curled up on the rug. She had read her son's last letter several times already. The first time in shock, the second, third, and several more times with tears. This last time though, there was something else, some other emotion as well. The grief was in the forefront of her heart, and there was very little room for anything else, but she felt...something...stirring. It was some time before she finally identified it.

She thought back over the years, to all the afternoons of him coming home with a black eye, a busted lip, and bloody knuckles. It became such a regular occurrence that she ceased to be shocked by the sight of him. He would just grin at her and say, "Honestly, Ma, you should see the other guy." She remembered the very first time he came home looking like that. He was 7 years old, and he tried to sneak in the back door quietly. Unfortunately for him, Bahorel was never capable of stealth. His mother smiled as she remembered his proud response of "I'm not hurt, really. I promise," spoken through bloody lips when she had exclaimed over his injuries. That's when she noticed the squirming underneath his shirt. "Bahorel....?!"

It was a tiny, ugly, matted, flat faced, orange, kitten. 

"I couldn't leave him Maman, those Barrett boys from over the hill were trying to drown him. They said he was a worthless runt, not worth keeping and I told them that it wasn't his fault he was littler than the others. They had already almost choked him to death before I knocked the big one down. And then the little one hit me, square in the mouth, so I knocked him down too, and by that time the big one was getting up, so I grabbed the kitten and backed away and I told them they better leave me alone and they better not try to get him back or I would knock them down again. Then I put Pierre - that's what I named him -under my shirt and ran all the way home. I couldn't leave him." 

And that's how it went, through all of Bahorel's growing up years. He never backed down from any fight, but he was absolutely ferocious if he saw anyone who couldn't defend themselves being bullied by those who were bigger and stronger. That was the cause of most of his fights.

And then, through those memories, his mother identified that other emotion in her heart, overshadowed by her grief, but not eclipsed by it.  
It was pride. Her Bahorel was gone, yes, but he had died defending the defenseless. She read the last few lines of his letter again,  
"I know you'll be sad, and I'm sorry, but I know I did right, trying to make things better. And I couldn't leave my friends. I never would. No matter what.  
But Maman, you should have seen the other guys. I love you.  
Your son,  
Bahorel"

As she finished reading, the cat jumped onto her lap, nudging her hand for attention. She kissed his ugly little flat face, scratched his ears, and said, "Ah, little Pierre, you're getting to be an old kitty, but you have to stay with me for a long time now. Our boy isn't coming home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel seems to get left out sometimes, so I wanted to do him justice. This is just the way his character developed in my mind. A fighter, with a big heart.  
> And though it seems unlikely, I have heard of cats living for 20 years and even more, so poor Pierre is old, but he has a few years left. :-)


	3. Bossuet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laigle de Meaux makes his daily trip to the post office and receives his son's last letter.

June 11, 1832

Laigle de Meaux made his way to the post office around midday, as he usually did. It was a beautiful day for a walk, the sky clear blue, and the heat wave seemed to have finally eased. It was, he thought, what an early summer day should be.

"Monsieur, there is a letter for you," said Gabrielle, the young woman who worked every day at the post office.

Laigle smiled at Gabrielle as she handed him the letter. His smile grew even wider as he recognized the messy, looping, handwriting. " It's from my boy! All the way from Paris. He's a good boy to write to his old Papa."

Thinking it a travesty to stay indoors on such a day, he walked back outside, sat down on a bench, and opened his letter. Gabrielle smiled to herself as she continued sorting the morning mail. The old man's happy attitude was contagious. After a couple of hours, and having a lull in her duties, she realized Monsieur de Meaux hadn't come back inside. Thinking he had fallen asleep, as he did occasionally, she peeked out the door to check on him.

"Monsieur!"

He was sitting on the bench, staring straight ahead, pale, almost transfixed it seemed. He wasn't aware of her presence until she stood right in front of him, placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and asked if he was feeling quite alright. He blinked slowly and finally looked up at her as if he hadn't realized anyone else was nearby.

"Monsieur, what is the matter?"

"My son. My happy, luckless, boy..." he took a shuddering breath, "...he is dead."

Gabrielle gasped, horrified, and then was silent, because what could she say?

He went on, almost as if he was talking to himself, "There was fighting. I knew he had friends who were involved in some dangerous activities, opposing the government...but...I never thought he would be so involved. I didn't know how much it meant to him."

He seemed to retreat back into himself then, and Gabrielle sat beside him quietly for a while, until the afternoon mail cart arrived. When she went back inside, he hadn't said another word.

_2 June, 1832_

_Bonjour Papa! First things first, I hope you know what a good Papa you are. I know it was difficult all those years of just the two of us, but it was always good. You taught me to enjoy life no matter what was happening around me. And I have, Papa, so thank you for that._

_If you're reading this, then it isn't bringing good news, and I'm sorry Papa. I'm so sorry. I'm writing to you so that if the worst happens, you will know why and how. I will keep this letter with me every moment, until it must be delivered to you, as I've directed on the envelope. My friends and I, and many others, are making plans. I don't know if you've heard yet, out in the provinces, but Lamarque died yesterday. He was the last in Parliament to speak for the people. Now there is no one to speak for them. So we will. I don't know exactly when we will make our voices heard, but it will be soon. We're prepared, as much as we can be, and we're confident that we have the support of the people. We believe that if we lead, they will rise up and join us. When they do, the government will have no choice but to listen to the people of France. We will take our country back from those who have polluted the ideals we hold dear._

_I'm not afraid, Papa. You taught me that life is too short to be afraid, and life taught me that bad things are going to happen whether I'm afraid of them or not, so I might as well face each day with a laugh. And I do. I hope that I will laugh and bring laughter to my friends right up until my death. And I hope that the people will see that if we unite together, and if we refuse to be oppressed, the world WILL change. It won't happen immediately, but it will happen, and I am honored to be a part of that._

_My friends, Papa, they are brave, and talented, and intelligent, and loyal. Next to you, they are the best of my life. Every one of us knows what we are going up against, and we know what we risk. We do so happily. My only misgiving comes from knowing that I am leaving you on your own, but remember that I love you Papa, and be proud of me. In the coming weeks, you will hear from a young lady named Muschietta. She is a good girl, and I have asked her to check on you. I know that she will. Thank you, Papa, for the life you gave me. I will see you again in whatever world is next._

_All my love, Laigle_

The sun was beginning to set when Gabrielle finished her work and stepped outside. Monsieur de Meaux was walking slowly down the hill. He was leaning more heavily on his walking stick than she had seen him do before, and she worried for him. Not knowing anything else to do, she called out to him. He turned very slowly to face her and she said,

"Monsieur! I will see you tomorrow, yes?"

He looked so very tired. There was not even the ghost of his warm and happy smile on his face. But he nodded once before turning his face toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a difficult time writing this one. Bossuet was never gloomy, but the subject matter certainly is, so it was hard to find a balance. I hope I've done justice to him though.


	4. Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's sister reads his letter.  
> And finds inspiration.

June 12, 1832

Alaina didn't mention the letter to her parents, but took it and a bottle of wine, and slipped away to her favorite spot in the valley near her home. R's letters didn't come often, but when they did, she always drank a glass of wine as she read, because she knew he had been drinking one (or three) as he wrote it. It was a way to feel closer to her brother, especially when she hadn't heard from him in a while. She never admitted how much she missed him. He was the only one in her family who didn't frown upon her defiance of convention, in fact he encouraged it. She sighed as she thought of the last time he had been home. Mother had gone to bed clutching a bottle of laudanum for company. R had been drunk, and their Father even more so. Father started criticizing Alaina for...something...she couldn't remember precisely what. He was always berating one of them for something. She saw R's eyes flash with the familiar anger and put out a hand to him saying, "It's not worth it. And it doesn't bother me anymore. Leave it."

Of course Grantaire did not leave it. He began one of his sarcastic, but irrefutable orations, the kind their father hated. (Possibly because he lacked the intellect to comprehend it.) Naturally, Father had turned his full attention on R at that point. Bitter accusations and criticisms were volleyed back and forth until Father had had enough and it ended the way it always did, with Father striking Grantaire across the face, giving him a bloody lip. Grantaire had never, through all the years of similar incidents, retaliated in kind. He told Alaina once that if he ever struck their father he was certain he would keep hitting him until one of them was dead. Alaina took the brief pause that came after the blow to grab her brother's hand and pull him from the room, their Father still spewing his venom at them both. Grantaire left to go back to Paris before dawn.

Alaina settled at the base of her favorite tree, uncorked the wine, taking a drink straight from the bottle, and opened her letter.

_4 June, 1832_

_Alaina,_

_I hope this finds you well, or as well as you can be in that dung heap we call our "ancestral home." How are our dear progenitors treating you these days? I have so often wished I had dragged you with me when I left, but I knew then, as I know now, that your sense of duty is stronger even than the depth of my contempt for them all._

_At the moment, it is better that you aren't here."The day is coming," as Apollo continues to remind us all. Lamarque is dead, and this is "our moment."_

Alaina wasn't sure whether to smile or to cringe. R had told her all about Enjolras, and much about his other friends. She knew that in spite of his cynical remarks, he held each of them in high regard. But none more so than Enjolras. She also knew that, in spite of that regard, he was a thorn in Enjolras' side. He had said so himself. Whenever Enjolras spoke, Grantaire either became so enthralled with the man's passion for his belief that he couldn't utter a word, or went the other way, pointing out every loophole in his rhetoric and starting arguments with him. Alaina understood her brother well enough to know that in his own way, R hated the injustice that was happening all around them every bit as much as Enjolras did, but unlike his leader, he was convinced that there was nothing to be done about it, that nothing would change, that things would only get worse.

_The plans are made. Tomorrow is Lamarque's funeral. That's where it will begin. And then, it won't be long until the end. I swore I wouldn't give my life, miserable as it is, for this cause, because I know this fight isn't going to make the difference the others believe it will. But I find myself thinking that my participation might make a difference to my friends. And, perhaps, even to Apollo. He is convinced that I am incapable of belief, incapable of anything worthwhile. I can't help wondering if he would see me differently if I agreed to fight by his side, because, Alaina, I may not believe in his cause, but damn it all, I believe in him. And when he speaks, I find myself almost wanting to believe._

_I can see you, sitting in your spot in the valley, reading this. What are you drinking with me, ma chere soeur? The sun is on the verge of setting on this day. Whether I intend to fight or not, I sense this may be the last sunset that I see. I would paint it if I had the supplies. In truth, I would like to leave something of value behind, something more than the empty wine bottles and the few worthless, absinthe-soaked canvasses crammed in my cupboards. Whatever happens tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, do not worry about me, and do not grieve for me. There is nothing in me worth grieving. My friends are going to their deaths. There can be no going back once this begins. They will die. Apollo will die. And I will follow him. I can not do otherwise. I have no desire to live in a world without the sun._

_Alaina, you are the solitary good that came out of our regrettable pedigree. Do not doubt that. Do not let father make you believe otherwise. And don't stay there forever, duty be damned. Don't waste your youth. Live. Live a life for us both._

_With love, R_

Alaina sat there, in her favorite spot, until the wine was gone, until the moon had chased the sun from the sky, until her eyes were dry. Late that night she packed a small trunk with the few items she cared to keep and walked out of her parents' home for the last time, without a word. Her face was set in the same defiant expression the National Guardsmen had seen on her brother's face six days before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expected this to be my easiest one to write, Grantaire being my favorite character in all of literature, but it was the hardest so far. Perhaps for the same reason. I perceive Grantaire as being very guarded, all the time. But in my head, his sister is the one person with whom he ever lets his guard down. Some of the Amis may occasionally see behind the mask, but R doesn't intentionally let it slip with them. With Alaina though, he sometimes does. They understand one another. I wanted to show that. I also think of R having a very dark childhood, because I don't believe cynics are born, I believe they are made. (At least that's how it happened for me.) :-) 
> 
> I'm still not sure I communicated all that I wanted to with this one. I don't think I could ever get to the bottom of Grantaire though.


	5. Joly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly's Gra-mere refuses to see Joly and his friends dishonored. Joly's last message to her.

June 7, 1832

It was late morning when Joly's mother answered the door to a plump woman in an apron, with red eyes, swollen it seemed from crying. She was holding a letter. Inviting her inside, the two women joined Joly's grandmother in the sitting room. Joly's mother read through the letter once, laid it on the table before her mother, and trembling, excused herself.

Joly's Gra-mere read the letter then, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. It was as if she could hear Joly speaking the words, so characteristic of him they were. She read them again, wanting to hear his voice in them, and seeking again the name he had mentioned. In the middle of the page was the explanation she was looking for -

_"I suppose we will be near the cafe for all of it. I hope and pray that whatever happens, Mdm. Hucheloup will stay safe. I have asked her to deliver this to you if I do not survive. She has taken excellent care of my friends and me, and I know she will take care to see you very soon. Thank her for me, once again..."_

Gra-mere looked at the woman sitting near her, fresh tears in both their eyes, patted her hand, and said, "You are Mdm. Hucheloup?"

Dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron, the woman nodded.

"Well then, I would ask for your assistance. My grandson tells me here that you have been very kind to him and his friends. Would it be too presumptuous to ask you for one final kindness?"

"Not at all, Madame. Those boys were the bright spot in most every day when they came to the cafe. What can I do?"

"First, if you'll assist me in collecting my cane and my hat. Then if you will accompany me to the church."

Mdm. Hucheloup was taken aback by this, but did as she was asked. The two ladies walked to the church which was just around the corner, where Gra-mere went straight inside and found the Bishop. Mdm. Hucheloup watched as the Bishop greeted the old lady warmly, and then read the letter she pressed into his hand. He took Joly's grandmother's hands in his own sadly and asked what he could do to help. That's when Mdm. Houcheloup was asked to join them.

Gra-mere began by introducing her to the Bishop and then went straight to the point, "My grandson and many of his friends were killed in the street outside this esteemed lady's cafe yesterday. The national guard was involved and I understand that in circumstances like this the bodies of those considered to be insurrectionists are often treated with the utmost contempt. I will NOT have that happen to my Joly, nor to his friends. Bishop, I know this is an unusual and perhaps an audacious request, but I am sure the soldiers would not grant me an audience. However, I believe that they might consider an appeal from a man of God. I would ask you to go to the commanding officer and request that the bodies of these boys be turned over to their families. They may not have had the opportunity to receive their last rites, but they must receive a proper burial."

The Bishop was surprised by this request, but touched by the determination and love of his congregant. He agreed to go straightaway and assured the women that he would call on them just as soon as he had news.

Mdm. Houcheloup escorted Gra-mere back home, and, when pressed, agreed to stay a while in hopes that the Bishop would return with news that very evening. Knowing her daughter would not emerge from her rooms anytime soon, Gra-mere asked their housekeeper to take some refreshment up to her, and instructed her to leave the tray outside the door. To the question in Mdm. Houcheloup's expression, she said simply, "My daughter doesn't cope well with grief. Nor much else either, if I'm honest. I leave her to herself and trust that she will come out when she's ready."

The two women waited anxiously. It was evening, almost dark when the Bishop knocked at the door. He had spoken to the Captain who had been placed in charge of sorting out the aftermath of the battle. The man had been more sympathetic than anyone expected. The Bishop had made his request on behalf of the families of the students and had been impressed by the Captain's compassion when he agreed. If the families of the young men could be contacted in a reasonable time, their loved one's bodies would be turned over to them. The Captain himself would undertake the task of contacting them. The Bishop made arrangements for Joly to be brought to the church so that a proper funeral could be held for him. After many thanks, the Bishop departed, promising to call again to discuss the funeral.

Mdm. Hucheloup too, took her leave, Gra-mere squeezing her hand, thanking her once more for caring for Joly, and insisting that she call again in a few days time.

It was late when Gra-mere finally took her place in her chair before the fire. She thought back over the day, so much sadness in her heart. She was glad she had been successful in managing the practicalities, knowing Joly would have thanked her, not only for himself, but for his friends as well. From her pocket, she removed his letter and her rosary, holding one in each hand. It was then that she noticed the outside of the letter. It was addressed to her, just her, not to her daughter. He would have preferred her to convey the news to his mother, knowing how she would react and hoping it would make it easier. Bless that thoughtful boy. Once more, she let Joly's last words wash over her.

" _I am sad to leave you both, but thankful knowing you have each other. I do not doubt that what we are doing is right, and good. How I wish there were another way! But this is the day we have planned for, and this path seems the only way to get the attention of those who would seek to trample underfoot those who are weaker. This is how we tell them that we will not stand for it. Those who are strong must help those who are weak. And when we see these injustices, we must rise up and say, 'No! We will NOT have this. No more!' I know you understand Gra-mere. I hope someday mother will as well. I am sorry to leave you both. But please know that I love you and will forever be your Joly._

Gra-mere sat there long into the night, rosary beads in her hand, lips moving in silent prayer. When she awoke next morning, there was a bittersweet peace in her heart. Tomorrow she would call on Mdm. Houcheloup. She wanted to be certain the woman who had cared so kindly for her grandson received all the kindness she could possibly give her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thought of Les Amis' bodies being treated with contempt, their families not having the choice to bury them, has always bothered me. So, with the help of Joly's grandmother, I fixed it. :-) Joly seems practical to me, so I think he would appreciate his grandmother's efforts on behalf of him and his friends.
> 
> I also thought a lot about Mdm. Hucheloup and how terrifying those days were for her. I thought she would want to feel as if she was helping do something for those boys, because I believe she must have cared for them. Gra-mere sensed that too.


	6. Courfeyrac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac's letter to his mother.

Courfeyrac

_June 1, 1832_

_Dear Mama,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. How are the vines doing this season? Green as far as you can see over the hills? Ah, I know it is beautiful there as summer begins. It makes me wistful for home. I shared my last bottle of our burgundy with my friends just last night._

_Things here in Paris are...active. There is so much going on. And, no surprise, I find myself right in the midst of it all. I always seem to find myself in the thick of things, and I would have it no other way. Lemarque's death has put everyone on alert it seems. My friends and I more than anyone. On his funeral day, we will make our presence known. It’s “time,” as our dear leader reminds us, and we must take this opportunity, while Lemarque’s death reminds the people of all that we have lost, and all that we might gain._

_I know you worry. But I hope that you, and Papa, Grand-pere and Grand-mere, and my dear sister and brother will all try to understand. Do you remember the first time you and Papa brought us to Paris? You went into a shop and told the 4 of us to stay put just outside. Poor Jacques. He and Elise tried to keep us there. But Mimi and I, well, we never did listen very well, did we? We were so impressed by that gaggle of gamins running through the alley, so independent, so smart, it seemed. I was 12 and Mimi was 10, and we knew little of the world outside of our little home in Angouleme. When we caught up with them, they were hiding in the alley and the oldest one, the one who looked like he was their leader, pulled a baguette from some hidden pocket of his ragged coat. He started tearing pieces off, giving the larger ones to the smaller children. By the time he had given some to each of them, there was only a tiny piece left for himself. I’ll never forget it, Mama. He looked at the ragtag group around him and one little girl, the smallest of them all, she must have only been 4 or 5 years old, was crying because she was still hungry. So he gave her the last piece of bread. He couldn’t have been older than I was. By that time Jacques had caught up with us, having left Elise outside the shop so you and Papa wouldn’t worry if you came out before he dragged us back. And grabbing me by the collar, he was ready to drag us away from there. But not before Mimi slipped away from him, taking the pastry she had begged you for just a few minutes before outside the bakery, and handing it to the boy. She didn’t say a word, and she was blushing furiously, but she walked straight up to him and held it out. As soon as he took it from her she turned and took off, flying past myself and Jacques. She was back with Elise before we caught up. I remember she was crying, but I was just…shocked. And I was angry. I hadn’t known there were children who didn’t have enough to eat, and I could not understand why the adults weren’t doing anything about it. That was probably the quietest I’ve ever been for the longest period of time. I didn’t even argue when Elise told you and Papa how we had run off. But Mimi told you what we had seen. For the remainder of that trip to Paris, it was all we could do to keep her from running after every group of children she saw._

_Mimi was the best of us all, don’t you think? Sometimes I have a letter halfway finished for her before I remember. It’s not that I truly forget. There’s an ache in my heart that never goes away and I know that’s the piece of it she took with her when she died. But it just still seems so impossible that she’s gone, that sickness and death would even dare to touch her. She was so full of life, and joy, and love._

_When I go with my friends to the barricades, I will do so in her memory, in memory of her kindness, and of her tender heart. And as I fight for a future in which children will not have to go hungry, I will do so in honor of that young boy who gave the little food he had to those younger and weaker than himself. Because that’s what this is all about, Mama, please try to understand that. Those who are strong have a responsibility, an obligation, to help those who are weak. It should not matter what part of the city you were born in, or your family lineage. Every citizen should be allowed to work and to make a life for him or herself, for their family. There should not be a king eating 7 course meals twice a day while toddlers starve to death. There is no world in which that is acceptable. If we who understand that are not willing to stand up and say so to the rest of the world, it will never change. I can not understand how anyone could see these injustices and not be moved to DO something._

_I will be well cared for as we go. My friends here, we have become a family, and we take care of one another. None of us wants to hurt our fellow countrymen, none of us wants to die. But we are willing to do both if it will make a difference to those hungry children in the street, if it will get the attention of those in power and make them realize that the way things are is not the way things should be. And we have the support of the people. That will be the key – we will lead, and they will rise up behind us, and those in power will be forced to listen._

_There is a new day coming, Mama, I pray that I will see it. But if I don’t, please know how much I love you, how thankful I am to have a mother like you, to have been loved, and cared for, and doted on, and given opportunities that so many do not have. That’s why I won’t waste this one. I’m enclosing notes for Papa, for Grand-mere and Grand-pere, for Elise, and for Jacques. I couldn’t put everything in just one letter, so I wrote to each of you. I wrote one to Mimi as well, but I will keep it with me. And if I see her soon, I promise to give her your love._

_With my whole heart,_

_Courfeyrac_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is such a warm, brotherly character. He had to have a large family. (In my mind anyway.)
> 
> I think the first time he met Gavroche he was reminded of his first trip to Paris. 
> 
> As easy as this whole thing seemed in my mind when I began, it seems to get more and more difficult. I think because it feels like I'm watching the Amis go all over again.


	7. Jehan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's words to his grandfather.

Jehan

May 27, 1832

Dearest Grandfather, Do you remember reading the poetry and prophecy of the Old Testament to me when I was just learning to read myself? The first time I heard the promise of “beauty for ashes,” from the words of Isaiah, I wondered what it meant. That phrase embedded itself in my heart, and as I grew older, I learned that there is often some ugliness before beauty can shine through – the pain of childbirth that leads to new life, the fire that destroys the foliage of a wood, only to see it come back more verdant, the death of leaves in the autumn which feeds the soil to bring about the new life of spring, the surgery that saves a patient…

But there is so much ugliness in the world as well, Grandfather, and I hate it. I hate the filthy gutter where the cripple lives exposed to the elements. I hate the hunger that gnaws away on children. I hate the prostitution trade which exploits the mother who has no other way to feed her child. I hate the sickness that takes a young father from his family because they can not afford simple medicine for him. And at the root of it all, I detest the injustice of a society which places more worth on one life than another. Are we not all humans? Are we not all brothers and sisters? Why is one man’s health more important than that of another? Why is one man’s voice heard and applauded while another’s is ignored? Why does a monarch eat, drink, and make merry, while ignoring the miserable cries of the citizens of the country he claims to serve?

Do you remember the friends I mentioned the last time we were together? Destiny was at work in bringing me to them. I was in the depths of melancholy when a young medical student by the name of Joly found me. He introduced me to his friends. I discovered that while there are true horrors in this world, there are also men willing to stand up and say, “No more.”

Grandfather, these friends of mine, they became my family. Each man’s personality so different from the next, each with different strengths and weaknesses, but each of our hearts beating in the same cadence, each of our minds dreaming of a glorious future! Among us there are students, workers, rogues, lovers, fighters, dreamers, clowns, and schemers – men of medicine, and of law, minds made for words, for strategy, even for prophecy, I’ve no doubt.

I’m no longer crushed by the ugliness I see, but lifted up by the hope my friends have instilled in me, by the plans we have made together. In a few days time, we will begin the next step. We are continuing the work of 1789, the work of 1830. It is our turn, our time to push that work forward, and whatever happens in these days to come, progress will be made. I know that I may not see the fruit of our labors, but others will. Children of the future will live in the illumination of the flame lit by our fathers, kept burning by us.

I know you don’t understand, would prefer me to leave this work for others to do, but how can I? That is the way of cowards. I am not afraid. And I long to be part of the history that makes the promise of the future possible. What higher call could a man answer than to leave a better world for generations to come? I believe, Grandfather. I believe that even if the coming days end in ashes, a most glorious future will rise from them. Beauty from the ashes.

My only sadness is in knowing that you will grieve. We have always communicated through poetry, you and I, so let me leave you with this. As I contemplate the days to come, this is the cry of my heart.

_My eyes seek only beauty._

_I see the ugliness of neglect._

_My ears long for music._

_I hear the cries of suffering children._

_My nose desires the fragrance of the flowers._

_I smell death, carried on the wind._

_My tongue craves the sweetness of honey._

_I taste only gall._

_My hands reach for love._

_And mon amis reach out to me._

 

Fraternitie will be our legacy.

Ever and always yours, Jehan


	8. Combeferre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's brother goes to the Cafe Musain the day after the fall of the barricade.

Combeferre

8 June, 1832

Eduard's hands shook slightly as he opened the letter. The truth was he had not stopped shaking since he received news of the fall of the barricade at Rue de Chanvrerrie. He knew that's where his brother was. And he knew that if the barricade had fallen, his brother was either in prison or dead.

So, last evening he had gone to the site, leaving his daughters in the care of a kindly neighbor for a little while. He tried to appear to be no more than a nosy passer-by, until he saw soldiers of the national guard loading bodies onto a cart, rough, uncaring, contemptuous. In the midst of this, he witnessed a commanding officer stride over to the ones loading the carts. "Gentlemen!" he said in a voice of unmistakable authority. "I would expect you to use some discretion. And to show some respect."

Recognizing the look of incredulity in the eyes of the men, the officer continued, "For the past two days these men were your enemies in battle. Today they are the dead sons, brothers, fathers, and friends of your countrymen. Treat them as you would hope your dead would be treated. That is not a request."

The soldiers went about their business, slightly more subdued.

Eduard followed the commanding officer until out of earshot of the rest. "Pardon, Monsieur?"

The officer turned quickly, not having seen Eduard.

"What are you doing here, Monsieur," he asked, gruff, but not unkind.

"Please forgive my intrusion. My name is Eduard. May I speak to you privately, sir?"

Regarding Eduard with shrewd eyes for a moment, he indicated that he should follow him. There was a makeshift command area set up in an alley a short distance from the site of the barricade. Taking the seat he was offered, Eduard waited for the officer to speak.

"Now, Monsieur, my name is Captain Baudin. How may I help you?"

Thinking it best to get straight to the point, and praying the captain was as compassionate as his orders to his men had indicated, Eduard said, "I am looking for someone. My brother."

Captain Baudin nodded, pulling a list from underneath the table. "Some of the men here had identification on their person. We have collected what we can, and compiled a list of names. I am undertaking the task of finding and notifying families. Your brother's name?"

"C..." Eduard began. He had to stop and take a steadying breath to keep the tremor from his voice. Clearing his throat, he said, "Combeferre."

Captain Baudin scanned the list, looked at Eduard, again with the same astute expression as before. "Yes. He's here."

Eduard's breath caught in his throat and he tried to speak but found that his voice had left him. So he nodded, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. He was not surprised, had known the outcome would not be favorable, and yet, the human heart always holds onto that little bit of hope, no matter how unfounded it may be.

Captain Baudin graciously gave Eduard a moment to collect himself and then continued, "Those we have been able to identify are inside the cafe. We don't expect many families to come here seeking them, but want to be prepared. Those who are claimed will be released to the families for burial."

Eduard's surprise must have shown on his face, because the captain continued, “You are the second individual I have spoken with today who seems surprised. We are not barbarians, monsieur. It appears some of the populace believes that we are, and that we will treat these men as such. Perhaps it was that way in the past, and perhaps other sites are being treated differently, however, I have attempted to remind my men that these fallen were their fellow citizens of France. I believe they should be treated as such, as I would hope our men would be by them were the situation reversed. You will need to make arrangements to collect his body tomorrow, as it is unlikely it could be done tonight. But if you would like, you may see him."

Eduard nodded uncertainly, and followed Captain Baudin to the cafe. Stepping just inside the doorway, the sight that met his eyes rooted him to the spot. The first body his eyes focused on was that of a child. A child. And next to him, a young woman, certainly not out of her teens. Looking further along the row of bodies, there were a few faces he didn't recognize, and then, one that he did, one very like the face he saw in the glass, and he had to hold onto the doorframe for support. There before him lay his wise, gentle, much too young, brother. Forcing his feet to move once more, he went and knelt beside him. Combeferre's spectacles were missing one lens, his shirt completely red with blood, and ripped in at least 3 places. "Bayonets," he whispered, the idea so abhorrent to him that he was nearly overcome by a wave of nausea. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing it to pass. Upon opening them, he noticed that resting on either side of Combeferre were Courfeyrac and Enjolras, his brother's two closest companions. Eduard had met most of his brother's close friends at least once. He recognized other faces too, lying side by side.

The captain had respectfully stayed back to give Eduard some privacy. In a moment he spoke up again, "There was a letter for you. He had it folded and placed inside his card case. I will give you another moment while I retrieve both items for you."

"Thank you, monsieur, " Eduard said, his voice barely audible even in the stillness of the room. He cleared his throat once again and continued, "Your kindness is very much appreciated. I will not forget it. My brother...he would have valued your civility."

Now it was morning. Eduard had not been able to bring himself to read the letter after returning home. This morning he must make arrangements for Combeferre's body to be returned to him. Funeral arrangements would have to be made as well. And, most terrible of all, he would have to tell his girls about their Uncle 'Ferre. But not yet.

_3 June, 1832_

_Dear Eduard, Hello my brother. I find myself attempting to write 3 letters that are proving to be the most difficult of my life. Just a short time ago you and I were discussing what the death of Lemarque, should it come soon, would mean for our cause. And now it has happened. Courfeyrac and Enjolras had very nearly the same thoughts you and I discussed in regard to the funeral, and making it a rallying point for the people. You have the revolution burning inside you every bit as much as we do, but I would ask you once more to release yourself from the feelings of doubt which plague you in regard to your role. Your thoughts and ideas have been more beneficial to me and my friends than I can express. But your place is with your daughters. They need you to protect them from the world that still is, until the new one dawns. You must raise them to have hearts of compassion and kindness for all people, and I have no doubt they will be the best of us all._

_I am glad to be part of the march of progress, but I do not delude myself. I know that if we engage in this fight, it is unlikely that we will survive. At the least we are likely to be imprisoned. But it is more probable that we will fall. That doesn’t make our actions any less effective, nor any less necessary - it is just the slow, methodical nature of progress. We keep the flame of 1789 alive, and pass the torch on to the next believers._

_I confess, there is so much more I would like to do. So much more I want to learn. So much more I want to teach others. However, I am proud to fight for the future so those who come behind us may do the things left undone by myself and my friends._

_I know it will be difficult, but I trust that in time Marie and Sophie will come to understand what I fought for, and that they will understand just how vital it is for all those who are strong to stand for those who can not stand for themselves. I know you will help them. My heart aches at the thought of leaving those little girls. They have brought so much sunshine and wonder to my life. Thank you for sharing them with me. When you go to my rooms, you will find some of my books set aside for them, mostly the things they showed interest in during our many talks. I have left a letter for each of them as well._

_I find myself thinking what a shame it is that we only discovered as adults that we are truly kindred spirits, but I’m thankful for the time we have had. I’m thankful for you, my brother._

_Carry on. Kindle the flame in your daughters and in the young men and women you teach at the university._

_And always, always, believe! Change will come, just as sure as the sun will rise. Libertie, Egalitie, and Fraternitie are not ideals that can be quenched forever._

_With love,_

_Combeferre_

Eduard sat reading and re-reading his brother's letter for a while, until he heard his daughters stirring upstairs. Wiping his eyes, he whispered, "They will miss you terribly, 'Ferre...I will miss you terribly. But we will carry your light. I swear it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one hurt.  
> Combeferre is such a gentle soul, and he is my other favorite of the Amis, alongside Grantaire. I hope I've done him justice.


	9. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' letter to his parents

_26 May, 1832_

_Dear Mother and Father, I feel compelled to write to you, spurred on by the current unrest in the air here in Paris. The cholera epidemic worsens by the day and now it appears General Lemarque may not survive another week. This illness is not concerned with whether one is a beggar in the gutter or a wealthy member of Parliament, it takes anyone. It takes everyone - clergy, royalty, child, worker, parent, student, rich, poor, bourgeois... the difference of course, being that the wealthy have access to better care. So many have died already. My friends and I have escaped sickness so far. I must confess, I am relieved, as there is much work to do, particularly in the event of Lemarque's death._

_Lemarque is a man of the people, and his sickness seems to have kindled a spark in those oppressed by the monarchy. His voice is the only one in the government which speaks for the weak, the poor, the orphans, and the afflicted. The flame is maddeningly near the fuse. Lemarque's death will light it. My friends and I will fan it, and we will see it through to the inevitable explosion. It is the natural progression of things. And it is right that it should happen._

_You know where I stand. Whether you understand it or not, you know the fire that burns in my soul. I refuse to stand idly by when there is much that I can do. We will make our voices heard, let the monarchy know the abuse of power will not be accepted anymore, that their willful neglect is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. It is time for this to end. When the explosion comes, I will be there, alongside my friends, alongside the people. I hope someday you will both come to terms with the fact that this life I have chosen is the only life possible for me. Even if it ends in my death, it is what is right, it is purposeful, it is what I was born to do. Life placed me in a position to do something of value, to make a stand for those too weak to stand on their own. It is impossible for me to do otherwise. Whether I live or die is, in reality, of no consequence, so long as my death serves the purpose it should. My comrades here are my family. My country is my mistress. The people are my brothers and sisters. We must do all that we can. We must do all that is required._

_It seems to me that those who do not weep over the injustice around us must be blind, and so I cannot understand why you do not see these things as I do. Regardless of that, in spite of what has happened between us in recent years, I am thankful for the opportunities you gave me. And I do love you both._

_Your son,_

_Enjolras_

11 June, 1832

He sat in his study at home, his head in his hands, his son's letter before him on the desk, along with the "official" notification from a Captain Baudin, the work he had sat down to review forgotten. He was roused from his thoughts when his wife swept through the door, cup of tea in hand.

"I thought you might like..." she started, before she noticed her husband's posture.

"What is it? Is there news? " she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

Her husband just stared at her, reminded of how much his son looked like her. It had been a long time since he had been so struck by the similarities. But looking at his wife now, all he could see was his son's bright blue eyes, his golden hair, his porcelain skin.

For a moment, she stared back at him, before crossing the room to his desk. As she looked down and saw the notice from the captain with the official seal of the national guard emblazoned across the top, the cup of tea slipped from her hands, unnoticed, and smashed on the floor at her feet.

"Stephen...what has happened? Is it...is it," and her voice became a whisper, "Is it our son?"

Her husband finally looked her in the eyes and she saw the pain and the anger within his own, warring with one another for dominance. He only nodded, and she sank to the floor, pale and trembling.

Enjolras' father stood up and came around to the other side of the desk. He knelt to the floor beside his wife, and now there was only gentleness in his eyes as he reached for her.

She flinched away from him. "Don't," she whispered. "Just don't."

He knew she blamed him for the estrangment between them and their son, and rightly so. She could not blame him any more than he blamed himself.

"Cherie, please...you're bleeding."

Enjolras' mother looked down and saw that her hands had landed on the fragments of the shattered tea cup. Her hands were indeed cut and bleeding, though she felt no physical pain. Suddenly she heard a sound like an injured animal. Looking up, she realized it was her husband. He was broken. The sight of his wife's blood, the same blood that ran through the veins of his only son, had finally destroyed the wall of reserve he had built around himself. He rocked back and forth on his knees next to his wife, pulling his hair, and the sobs wrenching themselves from his body sounded like nothing that should come from a human being.

At this, his wife was moved with pity for the man she had called her husband for almost 30 years. She was still angry with him, so angry, but she knew that her anger toward him paled in comparison to the contempt he held for himself. Wrapping her handkerchief around the worst of the cuts, she moved toward her husband and placed her head gently on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a long while, until his sobs quieted, and her silent tears began to dry. The following morning they would make the trip to Paris to collect the body of their son and to make arrangements for his burial.


	10. Feuilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly's message to all people, and Captain Baudin's reaction to it.

8 June, 1832

Captain Baudin was drained. True to his word, he had worked for the past two days checking the pockets and possessions of the dead insurrectionists.

"No. The dead boys," he corrected himself.

There were many they had been able to identify, many more they had not. He had written letters and had them dispatched as soon as possible so as to have the best chance of getting to the families of these dead.

He had respectfully not opened or read the contents of any unless he had to in order to find out the identity. There was one though, which he had read, and which made a deep impression on the soldier. It had been found in the pocket of a young man with his hat still intact, but his body torn apart by grapeshot. Captain Baudin knew now, having read the letter, that this man, found among the young students, was himself a tradesman, but obviously educated, obviously a gentleman, in the most sincere meaning of the word, who loved his country and his fellow man.

It was this letter which finally settled the battle of allegiances inside the Captain's chest. These young men were not enemies of the country. They WERE the country. They were not dewy-eyed schoolboys with no real knowledge of that which they spoke. They were learned, passionate, selfless, patriotic men whose only aim was to make the world better.

_4 June, 1832_

_My dear fellow citizens,_

_My name is Nathanael Feuilly._

_I have no father but justice._

_I have no mother but France._

_Her people are my brothers and sisters._

_I am your brother._

_If you are reading this, then I am dead. I have peace with that, because I gave my life for my family, for Mother France. You see, I have lived in a dark time. Our great country is under the rule of a monarchy which purposely neglects its people. The king gets fatter while his subjects starve in the streets. Mothers are selling their bodies, indeed their very souls, just to have enough to feed their children for one more day. Fathers are dying from overworking. The elderly freeze in winter and die of heat exposure in summer. Children die of simple fevers for lack of adequate medicine. All the while, kings and aristocracy turn their heads away and refuse to see the suffering before them._

_Over and over throughout history, in nations all over our world, brave men and women have stood up to tyrants and said, "Enough." And each time, their voices have risen stronger and louder. Each time, those in power have been forced to hear them. The sought-for changes have not always come about immediately, but progress has continually marched forward._

_Four days ago, our great country lost the one voice of the government willing to speak out against the injustices within the system he served. Jean Maximilien Lamarque has worked for the good of the people, but he was taken from us by the cholera epidemic. Tomorrow the people will honor him with a funeral procession. And with revolution._

_I am honored to take part in the insurrection to come. I work with a small group of friends who are the most noble, the most courageous men I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Each of us is prepared to either die in the effort to bring about change, or to live and continue the fight. I would have each of these men remembered by those who come behind us, because the hope of the future you will live in is thanks to people like them. We are only a small part of the work, but no individual who dares to stand up to injustice should be forgotten by those who benefit from their sacrifice._

_My friends, my brothers-in-arms: Alain Enjolras. Clément Combeferre. Beau Courfeyrac. Gervaise Bahorel. Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire. Sebastien Joly. Laigle de Meaux, called Bossuet. Lucien Grantaire._

_Among them are students of law, leaders, poets, artists, students of medicine, each with so much to contribute to the world. They could discover cures for terrible diseases, create the world's most poignant and valued painting, demand justice from inside the court room, write poetry that will inspire the idealists of the future, fight corruption from within the government itself. But tomorrow they will offer their lives, so that others will have the opportunities to do those things. They are sons, brothers, uncles, friends, lovers. I am a humble workman. A painter. And I am humbled by the friendship I share with these men. I am honored to work and to fight alongside them._

_We have spent countless hours preparing for this moment. Now that it is before us, we welcome it gladly, with courage and purpose. I feel more at peace than I have in years, truly. In times to come, my prayer is that you will continue to fight for those unable to fight for themselves. I implore you not to let our work and our sacrifice have been in vain. Never forget the darkness endured by those who came before in order for the light to shine on you. Do not allow the perfect ideals of la liberté , l'égalité et la fraternité be taken for granted again._

_Tomorrow we will fight for all the tomorrows._

_Remember us._

_Nathanael Feuilly, son of France_


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The February Revolution, 1848

24 February, 1848

"Victory is sweet, but is never without a price," the man murmured as he surveyed the street before the barricade, bodies of the insurrectionists and of National Guardsmen strewn about in the aftermath of the most recent fighting. The news had just come that King Louis Philippe had abdicated and fled the country, and the man knew in his heart that this was the turning point, that a glorious republic was before them now.

As he looked out over the carnage, some faces he knew, many he did not, there was one which caught his eye. He had seen him during the fighting, an older man, with graying hair, wearing the coat of a National Guardsman, but the hat of a tradesman, fighting on the side of the insurrectionists. It had been the sight of the coat worn by one fighting on his own side that had captured his attention. It had taken him back almost 16 years to another man with graying hair, wearing the coat of a Guardsman but helping the cause for which he and his friends fought.

Marius, overcome with curiosity about the man, checked him for identification. Inside the man's pocket was a card bearing his name, Captain Rene Baudin, National Guard. The words had been marked through. Scribbled underneath the title was an inscription which caused Marius' heart to constrict for a moment: "Rene Baudin, I fight for the people, in memory of those who fought and died in 1832."

Inside the card case, there was also a yellowed piece of paper, a letter, which looked like it had been folded and undfolded, read and re-read, hundreds of times. Marius' handled it carefully, for fear of it crumbling. His hands trembled slightly as he read the final words of a brave man he had once had the privilege of knowing, Feuilly's final tribute to his friends. He read the names of Les Amis de l'ABC, and silent tears slid down his cheeks as he remembered each and every one of them.

And then, he smiled, emotion swelling inside his chest. He could feel their joy on this day, just as if they were standing beside him - Enjolras, red flag in hand, pride beaming from his triumphant face, Combeferre's gentle wisdom and Joly's infectious cheer as they tend to the wounded, Bossuet jubilantly tossing his hat in the air, only to have it swept away by the wind, Jehan, already writing the poems in his mind which would tell the story of this day, Courfeyrac, merry as always, embracing each of them warmly, Bahorel's whoop of exultation, Feuilly's humble smile wide with relief and satisfaction, even Grantaire, surprise, humor, and joy mingling on his face, raising his bottle to toast the new dawn.

Marius raised his eyes to the heavens, thankful beyond expression for this day, peaceful in the knowledge that the sacrifices of his friends were finally recompensed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an unplanned epilogue, but it came to me as I was writing Feuilly's letter. Captain Baudin was touched by these young men, even after their deaths. And he put that into action. I thought that would be a nice parallel to Valjean's participation in the events of 1832.
> 
> And I wanted Marius to have his own part to play, because I believe in my heart that he continued the work of his friends.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me to the end. I've really enjoyed writing this. I would love your feedback, if you have any comments or criticisms even. But overall, I just hope you enjoyed my little drabble. 
> 
> Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking time to read! I hope you liked it. I'm always open to the thoughts and suggestions of those more experienced than myself. :-)


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